n't you want to go to the Priory?" said the little one, in a low,
awe-struck voice.

"I want something else first," said Eleanor evasively. "I am not ready
to go anywhere, or do anything, till I feel better."

"I wish you could see Mr. Rhys," said Julia. "He would help you to feel
better, I know."

Eleanor was silent, shedding tears quietly.

"Couldn't you come down and see him, Eleanor?"

"Child, how absurdly you talk! Do not speak of Mr. Rhys to me or to any
one else--unless you want him sent out of the village."

"Why, who would send him?" said Julia. "But he is going without
anybody's sending him. He is going as soon as he gets well, and he says
that will be very soon." Julia spoke very sorrowfully. "He is well
enough to preach again. He is going to preach at Brompton. I wish I
could hear him."

"When?"

"Next Monday evening."

"_Monday_ evening?"

"Yes."

"I shall want to purchase things at Brompton Monday," said Eleanor to
herself, her heart leaping up light. "I shall take the carriage and go."

"Where will he preach in Brompton, Julia? Is it anything of an
extraordinary occasion?"

"No. I don't know. O, he will be in the--I don't know! You know what
Mr. Rhys is. He is something--he isn't like what we are."

"Now if I go to the Methodist Chapel at Brompton," thought Eleanor, "it
will raise a storm that will either break me on the rocks, or land me
on shore. I will do it. This is my very last chance."

She sat before the fire, pondering over her arrangements. Julia nestled
up beside her, affectionate but mute, and laid her head caressingly
against her sister's arm. Eleanor felt the action, though she took no
notice of it. Both remained still for some little time.

"What would you like, Julia?" her sister began slowly. "What shall I do
to please you, before I leave home? What would you choose I should give
you?"

"Give _me?_ Are you going to give me anything?"

"I would like to please you before I go away--if I knew how. Do you
know how I can?"

"O Eleanor! Mr. Rhys wants something very much--If I could give it to
him!--"

"What is it?"

"He has nothing to write on--nothing but an old portfolio; and that
don't keep his pens and ink; and for travelling, you know, when he goes
away, if he had a writing case like yours--wouldn't it be nice? O
Eleanor, I thought of that the other day, but I had no money. What do
you think?"

"Excellent," said Eleanor. "Keep your own counsel, Julia; and you